Spot Conlon's Five Firsts
by Kiriga
Summary: I'd say it's not one of those usual 'Five times-'. To be on the safe side I'm warning against character deaths, gore, violence, implied slash -Sprace, though only in the last part, and it can be taken both ways-.


**A/N: Hi, yeah. Um, I sat down with a small idea the day before yesterday and started writing and now I have this thing. A 12 pages long one-shot. Geez, haven't done that before. So this is also one of my firsts, I guess *people throw bricks and boos* Yeah, um. WARNING FOR CHARACTER DEATH (but only OCs), GORE, PRETTY DESCRIPTIVE DEATHS (I guess. I feel like the first death should be warned against anyway), umm, IMPLIED SLASH. But really, it's only implied in the last part, and not even strongly. Can't think of any other warnings. So, please do go on, and sorry to keep yapping like this. **

Spot Conlon - Five Firsts 1891-1898

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><p>The boy who called himself Spot Conlon ran fast. He had been a newsboy for two years now, and with his slight built he'd quickly learned that while some newsies were nice boys, when on the street they were clearly outnumbered. Not that he had really expected something else. Thankfully he was a boy who learned fast, with a quick wit, good memory, and even better legs. Sometimes though that wasn't enough and he was caught by the older boys who liked to beat him around until they tired and took what money he had earned. But this time he wasn't going to let them catch him; he needed to get the money home, since his father had been in a bad mood all week and threatening to take it out physically on the twins, and Spot would rather die himself than let his siblings be targets of their father's fists.<p>

When the way in front of him was free Spot turned his head, just enough to see that he was only being followed by one boy—the others must have collapsed or decided it wasn't worth the work to catch him. The last one wasn't quite as fast as Spot himself, but he was probably just as stubborn. Spot turned his eyes forward again and barely avoided crashing into a carriage. As he ran onwards he heard the coachman yell after him, but he only thought of how he could shake off his last pursuer. _I think there's an alley somewhere around here. The hole in the end's too small for someone as big as that guy; I should be able to get rid of him there. _Spot looked frantically around, begging that he would see something he recognized. He had run for a long time and he was starting to tire, but he was nothing if not stubborn and so he continued his flight in the same speed he had begun, even as he faintly felt his lungs hurt.

With a quick grin he finally saw the signs he had looked for and leapt into the dark alley. If it hadn't taken too much effort he would have kept grinning widely as the feeling of success rose within him and made him gleeful and airheaded. That's why he didn't notice his mistake until it was far too late. He stopped with his stomach full of dread when he was a few feet away from the hole that would've taken him to safety and saw that there wasn't a hole there anymore—without his knowledge someone had seen fit to fix the wall, and done it good enough that there weren't any chance for anyone to slip through. Tools and loose stone still lay on the ground and he almost tripped over something when he took a frightened step backwards. Then he heard a low chuckle behind him and he spun around.

"Hiya, Spotty. Ya decided to be a nice boy an' give me your money now?" The bully who had chased him tried to calm his breathing and Spot felt a small, useless victory that, at the very least, the bigger boy wasn't unaffected after the chase.

"In your dreams, Delancey." Spot spat and glared, a look he had noticed made whoever he glared at nervous. He had his second small, useless victory when Delancey was the one to look way first, but the bigger boy wouldn't let Spot scare him; he knew Spot had no way of winning against him in a fight, so he simply walked threateningly towards his prey, who looked around in the futile hope of finding a way out.

"Your last chance, shrimp. Give me your money now, or I'll take 'em from ya after I've given ya a real good soaking. Show me that brain you're so proud over an' be a smart boy."

Spot scoffed and stood defiantly. "Like you ain't gonna beat me up. You want my money, you pry 'em from my dead, cold fingers."

Delancey shrugged and without another word he hit Spot square in his jaw with a powerful right-hook. The smaller boy stumbled but quickly shook his head before once again glaring and stepping into a fighting pose. Delancey raised an eyebrow, trying to look amused, but Spot saw how his fists had tightened and could almost hear teeth grinding in annoyance.

"You've toughened up, shrimp. Thought that'd get ya to ya knees, but guess I'll just have to stop going easy on ya."

Spot smirked in response and raised an eyebrow himself. Though he just wanted to beg Delancey to spare him, to not beat him up, he carefully hid all those emotions under a mask of arrogance and confidence. "Of course, you big, stupid imbecile. Can only thank you muttonheads for making me tough. Speaking of tough, ain't it time you go find your baby-brothers? Must be crying now, with your mother having abandoned you all and without their big, brave brother to protect 'em. But it ain't no surprise she left you all, I mean, she must have taken one look at you all's faces and realized what she's created and then run off. Makes the most sense to me."

Before Spot had finished talking Delancey was already running towards him, face twisted in fury and Spot could see whatever logical thoughts he'd had had been smothered under the rage. It was what he had planned. But the next question was how he was going to win a fight against the senseless but stronger and far more experienced boy. All the beating he'd received had made Spot tougher, yes, but it hadn't taught him to fight. What he knew was more or less what he had seen and tried to copy and he didn't have any idea if it would work.

When he saw Delancey coming running with murder in his eyes Spot almost panicked, but he steeled himself. If he would be beaten and lose his money, then he would at the very least make sure to present a good fight.

Just as he had come to his decision Delancey reached him, in a physical collision that threw them both to the ground. The next minutes was a tumble on the ground with the two boys' exchanging blows—or in Spot's case, receiving them—and bites—this time with Delancey as the receiving one. The fight came to a sudden stop when Delancey straddled Spot's torso and brought his hands down on the smaller boy's neck. While he didn't let his face be anything but blank panic filled Spot's eyes and he immediately lay still. They both breathed hard and for a moment just stared at each other before Delancey started pressing harder with a vicious grin. Spot's hands flew up to try and lessen the pressure on his throat, but it was no use.

"I've tired of ya, ya little shit. Ya shouldn't have talked that way, not 'bout me family. Kill ya, kill ya, I will kill ya. I'll kill ya!" Delancey kept muttering as Spot flailed without much reason left in his mind, trying desperately to draw air into his lungs again. It was hard, harder than he'd ever thought, to concentrate on anything other than his need for air but he knew he had to if he wanted to stay alive. As he started seeing black spots in the corner of his eyes his panic increased and he clawed at Delancey's face with one hand while the other searched for something, anything on the ground that could help him. He had almost given up when his fingers found something, something he could grab, and without thinking he slammed it into Delancey's face. It worked and Delancey released his grip with a strange sound, but it was nothing Spot heard as he shoved the bigger boy off him and coughed as he suddenly could and had to use his abused throat. When his breathing had turned back to something resembling normal he remembered his opponent and with a sharp movement he turned towards Delancey and prepared to fight again, but his oxygen-starved brain took a few seconds to realize that Delancey wasn't attacking him. It took even longer to realize that Delancey wasn't moving _at all_ and when Spot carefully moved closer to see why he gave a half-choked whimper and scuttled backwards again.

The object Spot had found was a knife, probably dropped from Delancey himself, and when he had slammed his fist—while holding the knife—into the other boy's face he had driven the knife through one of Delancey's eyeballs into his brain. Spot found that he could not look away from the un-seeing eyes and for a second it was as though the world had stopped and he was completely stripped of any feelings, but then the world started moving again and he swallowed deeply to collect himself, stood up on shaky legs, and ran out of the alley, without a single look behind him.

_First time __Spot Conlon killed someone was in self-defense, at the age of 8. _

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><p>It had been four months since the oldest Delancey brother's body had been found. No one had known anything about it nor had anyone seen anything. The police hadn't really cared about some dead, homeless kid and quickly left, saying there was nothing they could do. The two remaining Delancey brothers hadn't liked that but hadn't been able to do anything. All they knew was that their brother had liked to bully the younger newsies and they rightly guessed it was a newsie who had killed him in the end, and so they decided to make life in general miserable for all newsies. They were only in their early teens, so they couldn't do much against the elder and stronger newsies, but they did make life even worse for the ones who couldn't protect themselves.<p>

Spot was very careful to always be far away from them; he didn't fear them, he hadn't really feared anyone since that day, but he had enough trouble at home and out in the streets as it was and didn't want any more. That didn't mean he didn't think about that day—he did, and very often to boot. But that fear he'd felt in that alley was long gone, though not forgotten. From that fight he had learned some very important lessons, lessons that had since helped him greatly: to always know everything about your surroundings; to be careful around those boys who was capable of and might attempt to kill him; and that even those tiny and weak could win fights, if they had the right help. He had learned to swallow his pride a bit and make an effort to avoid those boys he knew would only see him as an easy target, so he didn't get into nearly as many fights. Out of those he did get into he had started winning more and more. It would all change though, Spot swore to himself. One day it would be everyone else who would take pains to avoid getting in his way. But he would never become one of those who beat others for no reason.

That was in the future though, he knew, and as long as he was small and weak he would have to keep away. As long as he still sold all his papers he would be fine, Spot told himself.

The day had been one of those though days, with bad weather and those forced to go outside not wanting to waste any money on a paper, so it was late in the evening when Spot finally could go home. The first thing he noticed when he walked through the door was the silence. It wasn't something he put much concern on though, as he guessed that his dad was out drinking, his mother out whoring, and his siblings asleep. He went directly to look for any food and found some bread. That discovery scared him as it was the bread he had left specifically for his siblings to eat, but as far as he could tell it was untouched. As he hurried to the small room they shared he unconsciously started biting his lower lip, as action he did when he was worried, but immediately stopped when he realized what he did. He couldn't stop the deep frown though when he opened the door and saw the empty bed that should've housed the twins. Spot tried to think of any reason why they shouldn't be in bed, but couldn't think of any, and even if it made him pissed off he couldn't do anything but waiting for someone to come home.

By the time his father stumbled through the door it was almost morning and Spot was feeling ready to scream. The urge became almost overwhelming when he saw how drunk the man was, but he bit his tongue and kept silent, opting instead to watch as his father slowly made his way to the bed the parents shared and throw down his body there. Before he could slip into unconsciousness Spot shook his shoulders with a carefully blank face. His father muttered something inaudible and tried to focus on him.

"What?" he asked.

"Where're the twins? They ain't in their bed," Spot said. He waited the few seconds it took for his father to understand the question and think of an answer, forcing himself not to grind his teeth or glare.

"Not here, better place," his father said with a grin. Apparently, Spot thought, it was one of the days when the man was an almost civil, happy drunk. It made him want to break bones.

"B-better place?" Spot cursed himself for stumbling over the words. "Where are they?" He felt almost sick and wanted to force the answers from his father, but forced himself to let his hands hang still at his sides before he lost his sensibility.

The drunk man shrugged, as good as he could lying on his stomach in the bed. "Don't know. Didn't ask."

Spot felt his blank mask twist, but he didn't care anymore. The only thing he cared about was his younger siblings. "What do you mean, didn't ask? Did you let 'em out all by themselves?"

"No, no. Good company, good man. I think. Paid good." It was then it dawned on Spot how his father had been able to go out and get so drunk, since they didn't have any money, but he wanted to deny it. He was well aware of what his father was capable of, but he didn't want to accept that he had failed to protect the only ones who completely depended on him. His mouth opened without any sound coming, so he tried again.

"You sold 'em, didn't you," Spot said slowly. It was all clear in his mind what had happened. "To get money for your booze. You sold 'em." When his father nodded and tried to hide a grin in vain, probably at the thought of all the money he'd received, all warmth left Spot. Before he had drawn his next breath it had returned tenfold and it almost felt like he was standing in a fire, but it didn't hurt. He looked around and saw his father's cane only a few steps away—a black cane with a golden head, made entirely of some metal he didn't know the name of. Then he stood looking down at the cane in his hand, without any memory of how it had gotten there, but his father drew his attention by noticing what he was doing.

"What ya doin', brat? That ain't yours. Did I say ya could touch it?" He asked, the earlier cheerful atmosphere having disappeared. Spot didn't answer, only looked down on his father—the drunk, always useless, _sold his children_—and didn't think, he only acted. With an angry growl he brought down the cane on the man's head with all the force he could muster and hit again, and again, and again. He was vaguely aware that he was muttering, saying, screaming things, but he didn't know what. Finally the cane fell out of his trembling hands, the weight too heavy for his tired hands, and he sank down on the floor. He had no idea how long he sat there, it could have been minutes and it could have been hours, but eventually he came back to his senses and lifted one trembling hand to his face. It was covered in blood, much like the rest of him, and he didn't need to look to know that the bed was just as bloody. Spot took a deep breath, held it, and then released it. Gingerly he stood up again and picked up the cane.

"I need to wash. And change clothes, I don't think I'm gonna wear these again. And I need to wash you too," Spot said to the cane and then giggled. "Me, talking to a cane, like it's gonna talk back." With a scoff he looked around though not actually registering anything. Wash, change clothes, clean the cane, and then he would find his siblings. He left the room without a look back.

_First time __Spot Conlon killed someone in hatred was his father, at the age of 9._

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><p>Brooklyn had been a challenge, but that was to expect after growing up in the more peaceful Manhattan. It had also quickly grown to be a paradise of sorts, which Spot definitely hadn't expected. But there he was, and unlike the newsies in Manhattan he had showed the ones in Brooklyn that he wasn't to play with and it didn't take long before most newsies thought twice before trying to bully him. He had gotten better at fighting and even though he was still pretty short and skinny he could win many fights with his fists alone—the rest he won with the help of his cane. Since he had left his home he had kept it close at all times and it had saved him quite a few times.<p>

In Brooklyn he joined the newsies, when an older newsie had found him trying to find somewhere to hide from the snow and taken him to his lodging house. Spot learnt the older boy's name was Fingers and when they both took liking to each other Spot grudgingly admitted to himself that he wouldn't have survived the winter unless he'd had somewhere to stay. With Fingers' help he learnt about Brooklyn, where and to whom to sell, who was who in the newsie society, and he felt at home for the first time in his life.

It didn't take long until he started receiving attention from the older boys—boys higher in the hierarchy, according to Fingers—and even from the Brooklyn newsies' leader, Skitter. After returning from his first meeting with the tough leader Spot told Fingers that he would one day become the leader of the Brooklyn newsies. Fingers laughed and told him that if Spot would be leader, then Fingers would be his right-hand man, and Spot accepted his promise. For some reason he wasn't sure of he trusted Fingers, and he wanted no one else as his second when he reached his goal. Though he hadn't been able to figure out if Fingers had been joking or if he'd been serious.

Now he got the feeling that winter in Brooklyn was especially kind towards him; a few weeks earlier Skitter's right-hand man had tripped on the ice and had more bad luck than Spot would ever wish someone when he somehow broke his neck in the landing. Spot didn't complain though, since someone's bad luck was someone else's good luck, and Spot wanted his position. He was also aware that Skitter favored him above most other newsies and Spot had already created such a reputation that most sensible newsies were careful of getting in his way—during the year he'd broken a handful bones with his cane, and no sane newsie wanted to have to nurture a broken bone upon everything else, even though Spot took care of the doctors' cost. He had found early on that he didn't really have much use for the money he earned except for food—and he always sold all his papes—so he had simply saved what he didn't use. His glare that promised bodily harm had also helped in keeping the doctors' prices down, which he was delighted to discover. That resulted in none of the boys harboring any hostility towards him, especially after they were reminded that they were the ones who had started the fight, and even in spite of Spot's generally distrustful and meanly sarcastic personality he was well-liked.

There wasn't really anyone else who would be better suited for taking over the position than Spot, and even though Fingers laughed and called him arrogant he agreed. To Spot's annoyance though not everybody thought so, because one of the other boys, Booty, had also decided to try and become the leader's right-hand. Even as Spot admitted Booty's strength and wit, he was not as good as Spot, and he was missing the most important thing—the ability to lead. Booty was simply a newsie among them all who was a little stronger and smarter than the average newsie, and Spot knew he wasn't fit to be a leader of any kind.

So he had taken the older newsie aside one night and walked with him to the docks, where the newsies liked to spend their free time.

"So, Spot, what did you want? It's late an' I'm freezing my ass off," Booty said and blew warm breath into his hands. He was nervous and didn't try to hide it, though Spot guessed it wouldn't have worked much better if he had. Booty was a bad liar and couldn't keep a secret for his life. Another reason he would be a lousy leader. Spot looked at him calmly, keeping his hands in his pockets.

"You need to back off, Booty. Stop trying to become Skitter's second, you'd make a terrible leader for the others. And if Skitter somehow choose you over me, I'd probably have to kill you, unless someone else is quicker. And I would much rather have you as one of my men than dead. So what do you say?"

Booty stared at him in silence and Spot waited patiently, as he knew it was a tough decision. Finally Booty opened his mouth. "You kiddin', right?" Spot raised an eyebrow.

"No. Why would I be?" Booty stared at him again and shook his head.

"You-you're just a kid. A tiny kid. Why the hell should you be the right-hand man? How the hell? You're, what, eleven?" Spot watched him cooly.

"And you're fifteen. So? I'm still a better leader than you." Spot watched Booty shake his head again and take a few steps back and forth. He frowned when he realized that there was little chance of Booty following his order, or advice, really. "Booty. Stop and listen to me, I'll tell you this just once. If you don't do what I say and back down I'll kill you. And I don't want that, and I'm sure you don't want that, so be sensible."

Booty only gave him an odd look and muttered something about brats under his breath. Spot held back a sigh, knowing his warning hadn't reached him. When Booty walked past him, apparently tired of whatever game he thought Spot was playing, Spot pulled out his cane and hit him in the back of his head, all in one sharp movement. Fastening the cane in his pants again Spot watched as Booty fell into a heap on the ground. When Booty didn't immediately move Spot walked forward to see it he was still breathing, and after checking that, yes, he was still alive, Spot dragged him to a place where he knew the ice was thin and dropped him in the water. He stayed for a few minutes to make sure that the other boy wouldn't somehow do anything unexpected, and then walked back to the lodging house.

No one would ask anything when the body was found, since it was well-known that Booty couldn't swim; he must have simply taken a walk, tripped and fallen into the water, and once there drowned. Sad, but no one would think twice and most would forget about him in time with the receding winter.

A wind blew and Spot shivered, wishing he hadn't lost his gloves recently. But it didn't bother him; he would just have to buy a new pair in the morning. As he left the docks behind him he tried to remember the exact number of coins he had and how much a new pair of gloves would cost.

_First time __Spot Conlon killed someone because of necessity was a rival, at the age of 11._

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><p>Brooklyn was his. After Skitter left for a grown-up job a month earlier, Spot had been the obvious successor, and there hadn't been a word of protest from any Brooklyn newsie. He hadn't been Skitter's second-in-command for even a year, but he had proven himself and his worth many times during that period and it didn't matter that he was still shorter and skinnier than most of them—though he had been growing a lot the last two months. He hadn't lost a single fight since he came to Brooklyn, he was smart, he was ruthless, and he cared for all the Brooklyn newsies. After having soaked those who disobeyed his orders it became well-known that when he said something, he meant it and didn't fear handing out punishments for refusals, and no one dared to disobey him.<p>

Spot had earned the unquestioning loyalty of his boys, especially from the young ones—those under ten—who he cared especially for. One of the first things he had made sure of when he became Skitter's second was that the young ones would be protected, an idea Skitter easily went along with. Spot was certain that the whole period he spent as second-in-command was only a test to see if he was a good enough leader to take over after Skitter, and after he implied it to the former leader he'd received laughter as response and a 'you'll do, kid. You'll do'.

The first month as the actual leader of Brooklyn Spot spent settling in in his new role, sending out his birdies—his personal spies—and making sure his contacts and everyone else who should know knew of the change. And then, as soon as his new life had started to feel familiar, he used all his birdies and connections to finish the search he'd started the night he'd killed his father. He had spent some fruitless weeks looking for his siblings in Manhattan and then traveled over to Brooklyn to look for them there, but he'd laid the search to rest after several months. He had let the search lie in the back of his mind and never mentioned it, as if he'd forgotten, but he never forgot. And after three years he had an answer.

Less than a day after he'd started his searching again he got a response about the most probable place that would buy two five-year-olds, a place for those men with 'special needs'. He looked up the place—it lay in Brooklyn, aggravatingly enough—and decided that even if they hadn't bought his siblings it was still a place he wouldn't accept in his city, so he ordered some of his best fighters to come with him and destroy it. His boys followed him, with only a few odd looks and shrugs, but it wasn't a surprise for him that when the boys saw the abused children most of them went into rage. He had been careful to pick the fighters who had younger siblings or simply was fond of younger children when he gave his order. He had given them permission to do whatever they wanted to the ones working in the place, as long as they disappeared from Brooklyn, but that they would leave the owner of the place to him.

Spot had already had a conversation with one of the men who had worked there and had found out that it was the place he'd been looking for. Unfortunately he also found out what had happened to his siblings. His sister, just as willful as him, had tried to escape several times during the three years until the owner decided she was too much trouble and ordered her death, as a warning to the others. His brother had then, after hearing about what happened to his sister, taken his own life. It had happened only six days before Spot ordered the search, and when he found out he let out his grief the only way he knew: he channeled it into anger and ended up killing the worker. But it wasn't enough, he didn't feel anything from doing it, so he set his eyes on the owner, Brady Gallagher.

As his boys took out their anger on the workers and the few customers they found and pained sounds was heard all around him Spot walked straight to the owner's office. He had broken in just the night before and memorized where it lay so he didn't have to search for it later, and he had used one of his connections to make sure Gallagher would be in his office, unknowingly waiting for him. To make his entrance more noticeable and to let out some small bit of the many feelings he would only release through violence he kicked open the door. His lips twisted into something that could remotely be called a smile when Gallagher jumped up from his chair in fright, took one look at his face and quickly looked at the window, as if Spot would let him escape. He had not yet drawn his cane, but he rested one hand on its top deceivingly casually as he sauntered into the office and blocked the way to the window. Gallagher only looked at him and Spot could see how he sweated.

"You know who I am?" Spot asked.

Gallagher cleared his throat shook and his head without breaking eye-contact. "No."

Spot smirked and calmly looked around the room; not showing how much he enjoyed the fear the now audible screams gave Gallagher. "And yet you're sweating like a pig. Wonder why that is. Maybe you can think of a reason and tell me." In the corner of his eye Spot saw Gallagher frown, uncertain about what he should do.

"Maybe…have someone paid you to do this?" the man asked. Spot turned back to look at him for a moment, a look Gallagher shied away from, then walked to the desk and examined the papers lying there.

"No, nobody paid me," was all he said. Gallagher slowly backed away, daring quick glances at the window he thought Spot didn't see. Spot had to force down a grin and kept his face casually indifferent. "If you forgot, we're on the second floor. It'll hurt if you try to jump out the window, and I have two boys waitin' down on the ground in case someone should, oh, I don't know, fall out of a window. But that would mean I let you get so far, of course, and I ain't planning on doing that. So you can drop that thought." Spot actually turned to see the panicked face Gallagher made and then leaned against the deck and stared at him, deciding to stop playing. He dropped his indifference and let disgust and anger show instead and there was a wonderful, light feeling in his chest when Gallagher couldn't even look him in his face, yet alone meet his eyes.

"Then-then you're here about the kids." Spot nodded once and let that be his answer. Gallagher frowned and scratched the side of his neck. There was sweat running down the sides of his face which Spot took special delight in. "But why? I remember seeing you out in the streets; you're a newsboy. You've never sat your foot here and I know I've never done anything to you-" Spot's furious glare stopped him from speaking. When Spot spoke his voice was low and though it was barely heard through the rest of the noise it send chills down Gallagher's back.

"You took my siblings. I wasn't home, I was workin'. The useless drunk sold 'em to you, for money to buy booze."

Gallagher swallowed hard and tried to smile. "Well, then, that's easy. There's not much I can do, unfortunately, since as you say I did buy them from your father. But don't worry. If you just tell me their names and your father's name I will look them up and then we can work something out-" Spot pulled out his cane and slammed it on the desk. Gallagher's hands darted up to defend himself but he lowered them when he saw that he hadn't been attacked. He looked at Spot and found he couldn't look away, even though he wanted to.

"They're dead. Both of them. They're dead and you killed them," Spot said with an emotionless voice that scared Gallagher far more than his glare did. He didn't have time to think of some way to try and appease the boy as Spot moved forward and slammed his cane into the man's head. Without a sound Spot hit and kicked at the body lying in front of him until it wouldn't be possible to identify him by looking at his face. Then he stood, panting, and stared at the corpse. For the first time since he found out about the twins he felt like laughing and though he didn't notice it he was smiling widely.

Spot cleaned off the blood on his cane on the dead man's clothes, stuck it in his pants again, and sauntered out of the room. On his way he met boys beating up men, all who stopped as if struck when he passed, but he didn't acknowledge anyone or stop until he stepped out of the building that would soon be burning. It was then that he realized that he was still smiling, and he was covered with blood, but for once didn't care who saw. He had already given all necessary orders and he had done what he came to do. With an almost spring in his steps he was on his way home to the lodging house.

_First time __Spot Conlon killed someone and enjoyed it was the one who was responsible for killing his siblings, at the age of 12._

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><p>Spot lay on his back and enjoyed the warm sun. The sound of his boys jumping in and out the water and splashing each other with water made him smile, something he rarely allowed himself to do, but he was too comfortable to bother about it. All in all it had been a good day: he had sold his papers quicker than he usually did; the meeting with the other areas had went well, and Race had promised he would come over after he sold his papers so they could spend some time together and maybe have a game of poker; the sun was shining warm on his skin and it had felt equally wonderful swimming around in the water; and he hadn't had to soak anyone, or even threaten it, during the whole day. He let out a small, content sigh and turned to lay on his stomach to let the sun warm his back, then went back to dozing.<p>

Had he been anyone else but Spot Conlon, the feared and fearless leader of Brooklyn, he would have let out some embarrassing sound when someone suddenly threw cold water on him. Instead he jerked, bit his teeth together, and jumped to his feet, searching for whoever had dared disturb him. It wasn't hard, since Fingers didn't even try to hide his laugher as he ran towards the water. Spot pretended to be mad, but the way his boys laughed at their leaders' antics warmed him. Still, he shook his wet hair out of his eyes before he took after his second.

Fingers kept his promise and publicly became Spot's right-hand man two months after Spot had become the leader of the Brooklyn newsies. He had never mentioned what Spot had done to the man who caused his siblings' deaths, but liked to talk about the whole act itself, since Spot's reputation had risen enormously thanks to it. It had probably helped that he had walked bloody through the city, not caring who saw him, straight from the soon burning building behind him. What had happened in that place became, with the newsies' help, quickly common knowledge and it didn't take many days until every person in Brooklyn knew who Spot Conlon was and what he and his boys had done. Many thought of him as a hero for destroying such an evil place, but those who had seen him that day or heard about it were simply afraid.

In the newsies society the incident had also gained interest, especially with those who had siblings or felt protective of the younger kids, and no one really knew what to think of him. After he had met with newsies from all areas it was generally agreed that Spot Conlon was very intimidating and that Brooklyn was to be feared. It also helped—Spot thought at least—that he had grown. Of course he was nowhere as tall as most of the older boys, but he was certainly not short any longer. He was still as thin as he'd always been though. Since it seemed like he couldn't gain weight or noticeable muscles no matter how he did he had stopped trying, and enjoyed the fact that it made his opponents underestimate him—a mistake most never made twice.

He had killed more than a handful people since he became the leader of Brooklyn. It was often those who had received his warning and then ignored it, and though he never enjoyed it he never hesitated and he never lost sleep over it. Spot knew it was actions made of necessity and nothing to dwell on, so he didn't. Those times when he only had to soak the boys was his preference, but he always left the choice to them and sighed if they didn't cave. The newsies in Brooklyn understood why he didn't allow any disobedience, but boys from other most other areas didn't and was terrified over the ease with which he could kill. The Manhattan boys in particular had a stronger bond with Brooklyn than the other cities, and Spot's friendship with some few individuals was even strong enough for them to tell him their feelings about the matter, something he scoffed at.

Out of those boys only one had been brave, or stupid, enough to broach the subject more than once, but then Race never did care about what was good for him. He also knew Spot well enough to know how far he could go and enjoyed pushing Spot's patience as much and as often as he could. It had been the case several times that he had gone too far and received Spot's fist to his face, but it never created any bad blood between them. Most of the time they had a friendly banter going on and Spot enjoyed it since few actually dared to get close to him, even among his own boys. Sure, there were absolute loyalty and they often joked around with him, and some probably even thought of him as a friend. But very few dared to get close to him, enough to challenge his words or actions, and while he certainly didn't mind that he also found it amusing when Fingers or Race gave him a piece of their mind. In return he sometimes let down his guard around them and ignored all thoughts of appearance.

The warm summer day had made Spot loosen up and while he hadn't thought so much about appearance his guard was up, albeit relaxed. After playing around with Fingers some he had retreated back to the docks, wanting to get back to the sun-drying. He had threatened bodily harm on the next one who even thought of doing a similar prank and settled down against some craters. But he found he couldn't go back into dozing like he had done earlier and tapped his cane with a frown. He had the feeling something would happen, but he had no idea what, and he didn't like it. There was no way to shake off the feeling though and he resigned himself to waiting. That's why, when one of his birds came walking in a casual speed, he wasn't surprised and only a little worried. Spot glanced at him when he sat down, then returned his gaze to the water. He let the other boy talk first.

"I have news from Jersey. One of the big shots there thought he'd test his strength against Brooklyn. But he ain't planning on coming here and facing you, he's just gonna send people to get your boys," the boy said in a low voice. He hesitated a little before continuing. "He said he's planning on taking out the youngest first. Probably since everyone knows Brooklyn, and you in particular, protect their young."

Spot nodded, not letting any of his thoughts be seen on his face. "This the guy who made trouble some months ago?" The spy nodded. "And I gave him a warning then. He ain't getting another," Spot said, already calculating how fast he could get to Jersey, how quickly he could be home again, and what things he would have to miss in Brooklyn.

"Oh, no, you don't. I know what you're thinking, Spot, and I ain't letting you go all the way to Jersey to kill some coward that should know better," a voice said. Spot sighed and glared at Fingers who didn't bulge a step. "Don't you give that look, it ain't helping. Shorty's in Jersey, isn't he? Then he can do it." Spot opened his mouth to protest but Fingers raised his hand and looked gravely at him. "Spot, aren't you hearin' what I'm saying? You're the leader of Brooklyn; you can't run around the state for every little thing. Shorty can do it, no problem, so don't worry."

"I ain't worried. I just want to do it myself. How do you know for sure that he ain't much stronger than we know? It's just better if I deal with it directly, instead of sending some child to do it," Spot said defiantly. He was glad his spies were trained to know when to keep their eyes and ears open and when to keep them shut. Though the boy sat next to him Spot was certain that whatever he heard would never leaver his mouth.

Fingers rolled his eyes and gave Spot a look that clearly stated his current opinion of his boss' intellect. "He's thirteen, fourteen in another three months. He's less than a year younger than you, so don't go mouthing off about 'sending a child' to do the work, you brat." Spot considered sending his bird to take a swim or something, but decided not to. "And of course you ain't worried. Of course. But you gotta use your brain and remember who you are and what you're doing. Besides, haven't you promised to meet with that Manhattan kid later? Wouldn't he cry all day long if you were out town and missed your meeting?" Spot scowled but kept silent. He had forgotten about Race, and now that he'd remembered he didn't want to go to Jersey. But he didn't want to send any of his boys to kill someone. But he'd promised Race.

Spot made his decision and turned to his spy, who still sat and made a very convincing act that he was deaf and blind. "Send a message to Shorty. I want that guy, whatever his name is, dead before tomorrow night. I don't care how, just that it happens. And after that I want Shorty to change places with…Tobb, I think."

The boy nodded and grinned quickly at them both before he stood up and left the docks. Spot returned to looking out over his boys, still swimming and laughing, while Fingers looked at him. Fingers gave a deep sigh and sat down on the crate the young boy just left.

"I know how you feel. You don't want to risk any of the boys, I get it, but Spot…that's one of the things a leader has to do. Now I'm sure Shorty will have no problem since, well, he is one of your precious, trained birds, and he'll soon be back here asking why you ordered him out of Jersey. But even if he screws up and gets killed, such things happen. You can't protect all the boys all the time, no one can. Ain't no human who can, I'm sure of it. So stop worrying." Spot muttered something under his breath and then stood up. He gestured to Fingers to follow him as he walked to the edge of the docks. Fingers stood beside him and waited to hear what his leader wanted to say.

Spot turned to him with a blank face and Fingers started to be suspicious, but before he had time to do anything Spot's arms flew out and pushed him into the water. When he broke the water's surface again, spluttering and coughing up water, he glared at Spot who grinned back with vicious delight. The boys around them paused to look at them.

"Well, well, well, ain't revenge just sweet," Spot said and actually winked. The boys laughed again when Fingers spluttered curses. Spot waved cheerfully and sat down. He had a date to plan for that evening, and this time it would end with Race's money safely in his pocket.

_First time __Spot Conlon ordered someone killed was someone threatening his boys, at the age of 14. _

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><p><strong>So, yeah. That was pretty morbid. But it was way too interesting to write~ Honestly, I hadn't thought I would write something like this. I mean, it's one thing to think about it and imagine moments like these and such, but to actually write them down... Oh, well, Spot's just too interesting. See ya. <strong>


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